When Death Comes AKnocking
by AetheriumDreams
Summary: A oneshot exploring one teenager's last nightmare. I don't know what compelled me to write this. My muse gnaws.


Screw this.

I'm running, though I don't know exactly where to; I just know I'm running away. Away from what's stalking behind me, ready to kill me or worse… yes, there are things worse than getting killed. I'm running as fast as I can, because if I don't then my pursuer will catch me, and I'm not about to let that happen.

Ha, listen to me… like I actually have any control over this situation.

See, this isn't an ordinary chase scene. As soon as I hit my fastest stride, the environment changes again and I run smack into a steel wall that wasn't there five seconds ago. I fall back and my head snaps against the ground. Fortunately my neck isn't broken. The pain doesn't come for a few milliseconds, and I pull out of the daze, my eyeballs feeling rattled in their sockets. My nose is bleeding and I think I broke some teeth, and I probably have a shiner welling up on my cheek, but… I have to get up, I have to run. I have to get away…

I scramble to my feet and take off running down the new corridor that has materialized. My pursuer must enjoy this game, 'cause this is the fifth time he's changed things. I keep my guard up, slowing my stride, looking out for any surprise walls. This place is dismal; there are chains hanging everywhere, and there are hundreds of pipes that lead to a smoking furnace. The heat is almost unbearable; I'm sweating horribly in my pajamas. My cropped hair is sticking to my head because it's soaked. My bare feet slap loudly against the hard floor as I run, but it can't be helped. I have to keep going…

I should have never listened to the rumors. The stories. I should have gotten clued in when those kids turned up dead one after the other. But I thought it wouldn't happen to me. I'm tough! My family owns automatic weapons, for crying out loud! I'm in JROTC and karate! I'm a tomboy! I'm not stupid, not like everyone else… but nothing matters when the killer gets you in your _dreams._

I slow my pace and make my way through a series of chains, all hanging from the ceiling. I try not to move them because then they'll clink and alert him to my location. Then I wonder: does it even matter if I make noise or not? This is his world; he knows where I am anyway.

My adrenaline is pumping and my heart is pounding. Now I know what a hunted animal feels like. Almost makes me feel sorry for that ten-pointer I pegged last week.

I hear his laughter; it's close. Too close. It should make me afraid, but now it just makes me mad. Mad that he's making fun of me, taking pleasure in my helplessness. It's pissing me off. I wanna take that clawed glove of his and shove it way up his hole. I'm afraid of him, yes, but it's my pride he's wounding now. I'd rather him cut me to ribbons than call me a coward. Maybe that's just my redneck nature coming out. But still: I'm going to die tonight, no matter what I do. Might as well put up a fight.

I see a length of pipe lying on the floor, by the furnace. It's at least three and a half feet long, and a good size for a good grip. I pick it up and test its weight. It'll do.

Funny how knowing you're about to die makes you go numb. You get this feeling, like it's all gonna be okay, as long as you put that bastard in a world of pain before you go. I wonder if this is how my brother felt. See, he was a Marine, as tough as they come, and he died in Afghanistan a couple years back. Got some medals and everything for it, too. Apparently he took some bad guys with him when he went. That's how I wanna go down: fighting like my brother. If only I had something good instead of this dumb pipe, like an AK or an M16…

SCREEE! I hear him doing that stupid claw thing again. That's how he got me scared in the beginning, scraping those razors on a pipe, making sparks fly. The light from the sparks showed me his ugly burned face. I bet I could make it uglier, real fast.

It's time for this game of cat-and-mouse to end.

I look around, expecting him to come from the shadows, but then I hear him chuckling from behind. I turn and see him silhouetted by the fire from the furnace. I take a step back involuntarily. He laughs again, mocking me. _"You think you're so tough, eh? But you're still afraid, like all the rest." _He holds up his claws, rubbing the first two together to make a metallic scraping sound, like sharpening knives. _"Putting up a fight won't do you any good, now."_

I don't answer him. I just stand there, both hands on the pipe, sweat dripping from my hair, my heart pounding and my feet seemingly rooted to the floor.

"Tommy?"

I turn to see… _my brother_… coming toward me, about twenty feet away. He's dressed in his uniform and he looks happy to see me. My brain can't comprehend what he's doing here. I know this is somehow wrong. But I smile anyway, even though Krueger's right there behind me. My brother comes closer to me, looking more like a scruffy kid than a Marine. "Thomasina…" he says, spreading his arms.

BOOM.

Something explodes. Like there was an IED in the floor. I scream. Then I look down. My brother's head rolls to my feet. There's blood everywhere. I want to throw up. Then his eyes open and he croaks, "Help me…"

I back away, only to run into Krueger, who grabs my arm and puts his claws to my throat. _"See?" _he purrs, forcing me to look at my brother's smoldering remains. _"I don't have to cut you to make you bleed, piggy. I know what makes you cry yourself to sleep at night. I know what your nightmares are made of. And now you're. All. Mine." _He runs his claws down my neck, breathing into my ear. _"And I'm gonna make you wish your death was as simple as his."_

This isn't fair. He's got full control now, he's inside my head in every way possible, and he's trying to break me before he shreds me up. Maybe he already has broken me. I'm crying now. Me, the tomboy, the toughie—crying. Oh God. I just want this to be over. He's gonna kill me slowly.

Or… maybe not.

I'm angry. Angry at him, at myself, at the ragheads that killed my brother, at life. I just want to rip something up and feel good about it. I want to beat the crap out of something.

Good thing he's standing right behind me.

I concentrate real hard and bring my leg up, like I'm doing the exercise my P.E. teacher calls "butt-kicks." Bingo. My hard little heel makes hard contact with the universal male tender spot. It doesn't debilitate him, but he does react, and lets go of me. His claws rake my shoulder, making deep cuts that sting as they bleed. I pull away. I'm still holding my pipe, so before he can fully pull out of his groin issue, I bring it around in a way that would make some MLB players weep, I swear. I keep doing it, tears running down my face as I vent my hatred on him. I know he's going to win this fight. I know I'm just hurling spitballs at a brick wall. But he _will know_ my fury before I die.

Apparently dead men don't bleed, at least not in dreams. But I don't care. I make one especially satisfying hit, one that snaps his head around and sends his hat flying. When he turns to look at me, his eyes are blazing, and he snarls curses before he jumps at me. My brief stint of glory is over. I bring the pipe up to block his first attack, but he slices my hand and I accidentally let go. The pipe clatters to the floor, useless. Our eyes meet and I take the opportunity to spit in his face. He growls and shoves his claws into my midsection, right where my stomach and liver and all that good junk is. The pain is overwhelming.

"_So much for that," _he hissed at me, forcefully pulling his claws out. I fall to my knees, my hands coming up to cradle the gaping hole that is leaking blood and bile and fluid. I cough, and blood comes up. This is it. I'm actually dying. I reach for the last of my bravado and look up at Freddy, at his twisted burned face and his stupid Christmas sweater. My vision is blurring and I can't think straight. I feel sad because I never got to join the Marines. I wonder what will happen to my parents now that both their kids are dead. I wonder how many other kids Freddy will kill after me. I wonder if I'll see my brother again. That thought brings me comfort and an ounce of strength.

"Go… to… hell," I rasp, and then it's over.


End file.
